


The Last Goodbye

by MissingNickname



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Funeral, Gen, general sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 18:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18722581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingNickname/pseuds/MissingNickname
Summary: “Do you not know who Phineas Taylor Barnum was? They are walking the path to his grave with him, they are mourning him, for he gave them a family when nobody else would.”





	The Last Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Prompt "Last Meeting" of TGS FanFicFeb. You are hereby sufficiently warned that there is Sadness ahead.   
> Major Character Death refers to the fact that in order for there to be a funeral, Barnum must have died somewhen before the beginning of this.  
> Can be interpreted as Barlyle, but isn't explicitly so.

It was already well into the afternoon. The day was bleak, sky cloudy and grey, the occasional snowflake drifting past the window. Mr Bennett was sitting in his armchair, staring out into the back garden, the open newspaper laying discarded on the coffee table, next to his empty china cup. This was how he spent a lot of his time nowadays - lost in thoughts and memories. He rarely picked up a pen anymore, and when he did, it wasn’t in order to write a slating review of some artist’s performance, nor a scathing critique of the latest pieces in the theatre. James Gordon Bennett had retired, and somewhere deep within, he was content. Content to be a mere observer rather than one of the chief players in New York’s high society. 

When he heard the front door open and close again, he sat up a little straighter and righted his collar. He could recognize his youngest son by the sound of the steps alone as the boy divested himself of his coat and put away his winter boots before crossing the hall and entering the living room.

“Father?” Unlike most days upon his return home, Jasper almost seemed hesitant today, his tone uncertain.    
“What is it, my boy?” 

“The circus troupe is out on the street father. But-” He seemed to be searching for the right words..

“They aren’t out for a show or anything. They seem… sad. Sombre.”

“The circus troupe, you say?” He supported himself on the armrests of his chair in order to stand up. “So his day has finally come, too, I expect.” These last words were murmured quietly to himself, not meant for his son. He gripped his black and silver walking cane in order to support himself as he crossed the hall and made his way to one of the windows that were looking out onto the main street. His son pulled one of the chairs over to the window for his father to sit down once more. Together, they peered past the curtains. And indeed. 

The troupe was marching along the street, heading in the direction of the church a couple of blocks to the south. Their heads were bent, no joyful laughter was accompanying them today.

Bennett could name every single one of them as they passed - there were the Wheeler siblings, the Bearded Lady, the little general, and right among them, with a blank face, clad in a black suit, was Carlyle. Only one was missing.

“So Barnum’s time really has come,” Bennett murmured. He felt a strange emptiness, he might almost call it sadness. They might have been rivals, but still… His son’s voice broke through his musings.

“Barnum? Like Helen?” He noticed a slight blush on Jasper’s cheeks, as always when the conversation turned to the younger Barnum daughter. He nodded curtly, doing his best to hide a soft smile. Ah, to be young again. “Yes - she is his daughter. Do you not know who Phineas Taylor Barnum _was_? They are walking the path to his grave with him, they are mourning him, for he gave them a family when nobody else would. 

He brought people together, people of all kinds, all sizes, shapes, colours, of all talents. He put them on a stage, in a time, where such a thing was unheard of. He was a daring man, a bold one, some might even have called him reckless. But he never failed to paint a smile on their faces.”

 

Mr Bennet shakily stood up again. “Come on, Jasper, let us walk for a bit.” He headed for the front door. 

 

The walking was slow, the theatre critic leaning heavily on his cane; its silver handle worn with use, betraying the years and years it had been lending support to the ageing man. 

“We were about the same age.” He chuckled roughly. “Seems like my upbringing at last has granted me one advantage over Barnum.”

 

And as the snowflakes gently drifted through the air, covering the street, the rooftops, and his hat in a thin layer of white, he told his son of Phineas Taylor Barnum and his American Museum. Of the invention of his “circus” - the word having such a nice “ring” to it -, of ideas “beyond one’s station”, of unshakeable love and devotion, of wagers, risks, insurmountable odds, losses - and of hope and happiness.

Slowly they trailed the path of the funeral party, their footprints already vanishing beneath the freshly fallen snowflakes. 

“For the longest time, I was the first amongst his critics - never could I have imagined somethings so … _common_ , so _base_ as these people could possess such a depth, such meaning.” He sighed wearily and put a hand on his son’s arm. “I couldn’t have been more wrong. As low as their standing in society might be, they are nothing short of extraordinary.” He chuckled. “You were smarter than me from the start. You were able to look past status and wealth right away, able to recognize what a precious gift they are offering to all of us.” He trailed off and lost himself in reminiscence once again. “A celebration of humanity, that’s what they ought to be called…”

 

It took the Bennetts, father and son, a good while to arrive at the graveyard. By the time they entered the secluded area hidden away from the main street by thick hedges, green even now in the midst of winter, the funeral seemed almost finished. They stayed back at the gate, so as not to disturb the sombre gathering.

As they observed them, every single member of the troupe stepped up to the headstone, said something and tossed a handful of earth into the hole before gently placing a flower next to the grave. Eventually, things were wrapped up, the priest and two helpers took shovels and filled the gaping hole that had swallowed the coffin, flattening the earth and tidying the site up in a rather unceremonious manner. The troupe, one by one, passed by the headstone, spoke a few words to the man standing there and touched him in some way - a hand on his shoulder, a soft brush against his arm, clasping both of his hands for a moment - before they left. An eerie silence was lingering over the entire scene. It seemed surreal. Finally, the iron gate to the graveyard swung shut behind the last of them, squeaking gently.

 

“Father? Who is that?” Jasper motioned towards the grave. A single man had stayed behind after the party’s departure, sunken to his knees in front of the marble grave stone, complete with gilded engravings - extravagant to his last moment. It seemed oddly appropriate. Bennett smiled fondly. 

“However big, however small - in loving memory of Charity and Phineas Taylor Barnum” the letters read. There was a black top hat with golden embellishments, sitting atop the stone at an angle. The man kneeling in front of it had taken his own top hat off, holding it against his chest in an oddly vulnerable gesture. He extended his left hand to trace the script, speaking - no, singing - softly to himself. “Let me be part of it all. Of the world you see…” He broke off.

  
“That’s Phillip Carlyle. His associate, business partner, friend,... some say he was even more than that, but who are we to judge?”

 

They approached slowly, trying to remain respectful and not disturb the grieving man. Still, he must have heard them, for he stood up stiffly. Melting snow had formed two wet patches on his dress pants where his knees had been on the floor. He had obviously cried, did not even attempt to hide it. They expressed their condolences. Carlyle just nodded. They remained standing in front of the headstone in a somewhat awkward silence. 

Slowly, darkness fell and out on the street the lanterns one by one lit up with an orange glow, but on the graveyard, the only light came from the occasional candle lit in front of a grave, in loving memory of some deceased family member. Nobody hat lit a candle at Barnum’s grave, yet. The troupe had left that honor to Carlyle, but the man didn’t seem to be capable of that simple action, just yet.

 

Finally, Carlyle seemed to gather himself. He almost smiled. “Tonight, the circus won’t be silent. They will be celebrating him. His life, all the hope and joy he has brought us. I am… I am not yet ready to honour him in such a way.” He fell silent once more, fiddling with his top hat absent-mindedly. Bennett only nodded in wordless sympathy and understanding. For what was there left to say?

For another long while, the three men stood wordlessly, looking at the gravestone, this grand yet lifeless remnant of a man once so full of energy and joy. This time, the awkwardness had given way to a strange sort of mutual understanding. Finally, Bennett tipped his hat. “To the man who brought happiness to others,” he said. 

“That he did.” Phillip’s voice was thick with emotion. 

Bennett gave the grieving a last nod and turned to leave, one hand on his son’s shoulder. Jasper followed his lead without a word. 

 

They paused at the iron gate that opened back to the road. The snowfall had ceased and the road was now covered in a soft layer of white, the footsteps of the funeral procession still visible, but only barely. 

 

“To the man who didn’t fail to make me smile.” And in the waning light, the silhouette of Phillip Carlyle sinking back to his knees, shoulders shaking, leaning his head against the marble stone, was the last thing James Gordon Bennett saw before leaving the graveyard.


End file.
